Performer’s Dilemma

Panicking, nauseating, bewildered,
Caught in a loop of acts,
What should he do, how should he act
What should he perform which would please the rest?


Should he narrate a story?
Or should he create something new?
Will they accept it, as it is?
Or they will need something suiting their views.


Should he tell them, should he unveil?
His beliefs, his wishes, his dreams, his wants,
Or should he make jokes about his seemingly real life,
And stick to their predictable demands?


What if they like the character more than him?
What if his feelings, his plights, his emotions are lost,
And all they can see is
Nasty painted laughter and the fake glee?


What if they fail to see?
What he wants to show them behind the scenes,
And they get blown away by those mere made-up unreal plots,
When hidden beneath them is the actual story yet unseen.

Suppressed Cries

7 am tolls.
Oh, it’s another morning.
Is it?


How will you know?


Brush your teeth,
Gather your covers,
Dress up,
Show a smiling face to the mirror,
See yourself.
Are you conscious?


Welcome to another day.
All laced up,
Following the track,
Without any variation,
Without any change,
Like it was drawn,
Back there in times.


Take a glimpse of your social life,
Meeting persons,


Staring at veils,
Multiple layers.


Share with them your stories,
Are they real?
Is it what it is?


Connecting with screens.
Living with its elements.


Swirl around,
And round.
Among a thousand of people,
Talk work,
Talk money,
Talk love,
Talk lust,
Talk fantasies,
Talk dreams,
Talk gossips,
Talk stories,
Are they real?
Or, is it what it needs to be?


Hearing their stories,
Blurting them yours,
Do you get them?
Do they get you?


Calling it a talk,
Saying it a moment,
Did you ever really go through?


Roam around,
As you state it,


‘At last peace.’
‘Lived the moment.’
‘At cloud nine’
Did you?
Are you?


‘Living your dreams.’
‘Following your passion.’
Aren’t they too heavy for a phrase?
Yes, my grace.


Wandering all day,
Scrolling all night.


Does it ring any bell to you?


Oh, yes,
Another task pending in a while,
Another list to go through riled,
Another state needs to be changed,
Another level needs to be managed.


12 am.
Staring your face on the screen again,
Mirror this time.
Oh, you have got nothing in your eyes,
Neither hay nor straw
But yes, a lot more behind.
A hidden cry.



You know when it curbs me?
Of course, I feel it.
I feel it for you too.
You are no exception.
I am either.
I hate you sometimes.
And you know what,
It breeds when you are not around.
I don’t know what made you
Surmount your presence,
There around me,
Most of the times,
When it all started.
Your presence,
It has an unnoticeable existence,
Time and again,
That I cannot feel it differently,
As those movies and those stories extrapolate,
I don’t feel anything different,
It’s all just the same.
But I do feel something.
I feel a chamber around me,
That cuts me from the chaos of my life,
That lands me up in a small space,
Where I can be,
Without considering the rest of the world.
That space which is now an addiction.
And I will blame no one, but you.
I didn’t face the moments of discontent earlier.
Although, I won’t deny any prior encounters,
But this reason is new.
And it took me long to figure out,
One can never have those numbing points,
Discovered all by oneself,
Weakness is a better word,
But you are not my weakness.
You have always existed as my strength,
But, then why is this subsistence,
That is troubling me out.
What is the strange silence,
That covers me up.
Why I land myself in thinking,
What has happened and
What will now?
Why I am gaping and gazing still,
For some moments,
Till someone figures that out.
That sounds weird,
In fact, it is,
The thing is, it took me so long,
To get hold of that weirdness.
Was I the same?
Before few years,
Did I feel the same urge
To be in that small space of yours?
I never knew,
That it ever existed,
Was it better than what it is now?
That dilemma curtails me all the time.
What could have happened
Or how could have been the world now?
Anyway, who am I, when,
Shakespeare himself suffered,
While choosing to be or not to be,
So did the Frost in another way,
Not seeing the other side of the woods,
Where he would have traveled if he had chosen differently.
Well, it could not be changed,
But the matter is all about hatred.
I won’t,
I can’t,
Cut it off, as it is inevitable.
I cannot stop hating you,
For coming and being a part of the journey,
That I was accustomed to traveling alone.
But you know,
I loved you for the same reason.
Ain’t it worse when it works on extremities?
You know me enough,
I have always loved to play in extreme lines.
So, we will now.

Colors of chaos

When she picked a brush to paint,
She has so much on her mind,
But nothing on her brain,
Her hands felt too numb.
Her thoughts couldn’t have raced faster,
Her heart was on the verge,
On the verge, to get withered,
But it held back before it succumbed.
Succumbed to her thoughts,
Cause they were bewildered and confused,
Or to her spirit, which was free, steady
Still waiting for an open path, to get a straight run.
Or to the mighty world,
Which doesn’t allow her to live on her own,
Search her own colors,
And paint in her life, a bright sun.
She has discerned this phase, as it was not new,
She tries to wipe it off,
But the screen is all inked,
With the color that she never knew.
She has never liked the irregularities,
And often she tries to make them perfect,
But this time she is getting no stroke,
No color to complete the painting she never drew.
Oh, never mind!  She has always loved her colors,
They elucidate the meaning behind the things,
Blue sky wrapping up the passion,
Those red petals contouring glee.
Yellow, she has always loved it,
Those bright strips in the boring street,
She often uses those green strokes,
When she wants to get it all alive with that tree.
She has loved those dark shades too,
When she paints those dry branches,
Of the trunk with years long girth,
With its spread loose roots, daunted.
But today, she has lost her sense of colors,
Chaos is not letting her choose one,
She knows what she has in her mind,
But the mere way of articulation is nowhere to find.
She stood in front of her spoiled canvas,
Staring at the weird emptiness as it is akin,
The time ticks an hour,
And she knows, it will take more to think.
It went like two, three and more,
And she kept standing on the balcony,
Her canvas inked,
With the incomplete art undone.
She couldn’t think more,
And there, the winds came blowing in,
It spilled up the sheet further,
Which turned it uglier, more ruined.
With the winds, she felt the urge,
The urge to dip her fingers,
Into the jar of blue,
Which was kept among the tumblers.
She spread it all, each corner, each edge, each line,
From top to bottom,
She took out her wrath in the fixture,
And that was worth the dime.
Her fury, her rage, her resentment,
Which she was bearing with time,
Was all in the sheet that went blue,
As the clock ticked nine.
She knows now what she has to paint,
Her chaos alleviated,
With the unfathomable spirit
The color infused in her brain.
She picked the brush again,
And this time, dipped it in black,
With defiance, she drew those birds,
And a sky which outlives her ephemeral aims.


An eternal loop

Don’t wait for me ever.
Don’t disturb the symphony of your life.
Don’t think of me all night.
Don’t remember my chatter in the day too.
I won’t come to you for all.
But I will call you one day.
You may ask me next,
But don’t think of it now,
‘Cause I won’t tell you,
I couldn’t.
Because I don’t even know when.
But I will call you one day.
Which day?
Let me catch the phrase,
The day,
When the world will lose its vividness,
When the stars will subside its shine,
When the flowing water will not make those lovely sound,
When my heart will resign,
When the birds will not sound so good,
When the winds will divert its flow,
When my hair will not float in the brooks,
When my feet will get swollen,
When the blue of the sky will get dull,
When the sunshine will hit me hard,
When I cannot tolerate the heat out of the dark,
When my head will throb and will diverge apart,
When the tigers will get tamed by those monkeys,
When the music will get dull,
When the rhythms will have no melody,
When my words will become hollow, thoroughly null,
When the yellow will not please me, nor will the blue,
When the rainbow will lose its curve and the butterfly will lose its hue.
See I told you.
That I still don’t know when I will call you.
But I will call you one day.
When the moon will not talk with the night and will swallow its words within,
When the droplets will not stick to the ground and run away,
When the trains will forget the directions and rains will forget the play,
When darkness of black will turn white,
When the brightness of white will turn gray.
See I promised you that I will call you one day.
I will call you and will ask you if you know a world so new,
Far away from this whimsical souls,
Having new textures, new hue,
I will ask you to tell me if you know how to go to that place,
You will do some spell and tell me that you still don’t have the way.
But then you will turn a plate which is too heavy to lift upside down,
And then you will say you have corrected my world,
My place from where I came,
My home bearing ground.
And then I will be afraid cause I have left it far away,
I want to go to a new land,
Through a journey which passes through infinite bays.
But then you will sing me a song,
Telling that the world is nothing but a loop,
The threads sometimes are taut, sometimes they become too loose.
But you know that magic which can stretch it all tight,
You will be my harbinger of bliss and turn my land upright.
And then I will deny but you will throw me again to that land,
I will get pleased by the blossoms and smell of the muddy rain.
Within the loop, I will travel again,
And then again we will come to the promise,
Of calling you once again.

Fire and randomness

Dark clouds all over the city today.
Gloomy weather,
It’s so perfect for her,
She chooses the particular club for the day,
On the top of the hill.
She likes the interior and the sitting,
The walls, all painted in black,
The scrappy plaster coming out of the edges,
Of the bricks that were laid so imperfectly, unfitting.
Yes, she has always liked the imperfections,
The unfinished furniture,
The rugged covers of the couches,
The broken lining of the coffee mug,
The torn corner of the menu board,
The slanted lines of the windows and the doors,
The wrongly placed carpet on the floor,
The patterned, torn shirt of the bartender with his blue hair.
Everything is so her, brimming with randomness.
She sometimes thinks,
The only contribution to the world,
She has made yet, is increasing its entropy,
Which she did out of her whimsical actions and ways.
Nobody will know, as she will never say,
She will never reveal her hidden secrets,
Her thoughts, her props, her figures of the game,
She has always followed her own path,
The path that follows through the dungeons,
Through the mystic lanes.
She takes the same place in the balcony,
Where she get to have the clouds around,
All dressed up in black,
She takes out the pack,
And lights the flame.
She has to manage with this petty matchbox today,
As she has lost her lighter,
She grabbed it up from the streets,
Where she walked earlier to get here.
She stills thinks why are they petrified,
When she walked down the lane,
Is it about the dark covering which she wore?
Or the layers of arts on her skin,
Or about her eyes,
Which encloses a void,
Searching for its own depths.
She puts this thought away,
Lighting up a new flame,
She flicks the stick away,
She finds some strange pleasure in that,
Lighting up the matches and riffling them away.
She feels as she is the one,
Who has the power, the control,
She can burn it all
Or stall it half way,
Picking another one, again and again,
Lighting and riffling.
Some matches go far, some lands up nearby.
Fire is her element.
She has always believed,
Randomness and fire,
Isn’t that a brilliant combination to have?
She smirks as she thinks.
The burning stick has the fire for a fraction of second,
But it burns it all away,
When she flips it through her fingers,
Sometimes it blows off,
Sometimes the stick flails.
Sometimes it lands unburnt,
Sometimes turns to black trails.
Fire and randomness again.
She completes a pack,
She can now feed on the smoke around her,
The smoke she has liberated,
With some remains,
Which the weather has added in rage.
She watches her wrist,
It’s time for the game.
The clouds have cleared her view,
The thunders and lightening,
She can hear them fading far,
Fire and randomness.
She mumbles.
In fraction of seconds,
It’s done,
Just like the riffling of the lit stick,
She smiles now,
As what she sees around are all fiery rumbles.
Fire and randomness.
She has done it all again.



“Take me away from here,
I don’t want to live in this nasty place anymore,”
She said to her sister,
But, she continued to cover her up with the quilt,
Both felt the chills,
The running air conditioners,
Or the disaster that numbed their nerves.
She asked the ward boy to increase the temperature,
Intensive Care Unit,
Waved the board outside.


She wished if she could grant her wish,
As she always did,
But how could she.
How could she make her disappear,
From this world ,
Where she herself is stuck for years?


She wondered if she could have an escape,


An escape to the world where still humanity exists,
An escape to the world where they can walk and laugh freely on the streets,
An escape to the world where no one bothers how they dressed, how they acted,
An escape to the world where they are not judged by the freedom of their thoughts against the unjust,
An escape to the world where they do not suffer the critical remarks on their blunt character,
An escape to the world where no one crumbles their dreams with the stiff hammer of realities,
An escape to the world where their bodies are treated with sanctity,
An escape to the world where they are not possessions to crave for,
An escape to the world where they are not mere objects for fulfilling their lust and desires,
An escape to the world where they are not intimidated by the devilish eyes of those hunters,
An escape to the world where their souls are still free and unhampered,
An escape to the world where everyone makes stand towards the injustice,
An escape to the world where they are not questioned for undone misdeeds,
An escape to the world where they are supported in the fight against the people who gave them scars,
An escape to the world where their excruciating pain is felt, with which they suffer, each passing hour,
An escape to the world where they are not harassed,
An escape to the world where they are not raped.


She wished, if she could have the one.


Covering her up,
She closed her eyes,
Her palms were cold.
Holding them tight,
She whispered,
“Sleep, my love.
We are not cowards,
We will not run,
We will fight.”

The Midnight Supper


On the dining table,
She smiles as she eats,
The sound of the cutlery too seems a melody,
The heated dinner,
He had cooked for her,
The smell penetrates her mind,
As she was there against him,
When he played with the spoons.

‘So you know that too’, she had asked,
He then smirked,
Clutched her from the back and kissed,
‘I know this the best, rest I can manage when you are around,
I can walk on the waters,
I can fly in the sky,
I can reach down the ocean,
I can cheat the lingering fire,
Because all those are just the background,
In the picture of you and me.’

He then said she was his world,
His desire,
His dream,
Moving his bare hands on the vessel with glee.

He did this the best too,
She savors as she eat.
A drop falling from her eye,
That is not a cry,
That is not the wain,
But her thudding heart,
Reminding her of the hours insane.

It was just a month ago,
When they jumped from uphill,
Clutching each other’s fists tight,
She didn’t trust the hanging ropes or the belts,
But the grasp of his arms,
The pacifying smell.

They saw the river brimming,
As they looked away,
When they fell,
He then said,
He loved her,
For nights and the days,
On his hands was the ring,
He then slid it, through her way,
Her thudding heart then had no choice,
She knew that it will happen one day,
But this day,
Was it then chosen to turn divine?

Today is the day, when she turned twenty two,
She woke up at seven and caught his glimpse,
While arranging the table
He counted the candles with a wide grin,
She realized,
Back down the memory lanes,
She had those years getting rewind,
She is a pretty daughter,
An insane girl,
She does anything that her mind says,
But never crumbled one,
She is reckless,
She hates the bars,
She dreams in day,
Nights are always her working hours.
Those were the ones that took her far,
She smiled at him and blew the candles, par,
Sunk into depths of her temple,
Looking down the bright sun,
Through the diaphanous plate,
Seventy first floor.

Nothing has changed in hours, but the sun is set,
Looking down the city lights,
Seventy first floor,
She sitting in her diner,
Staring at her studded finger,
The diamond that cannot be finer.
She then thinks,
That is what she dreamed of,
Dozing off in the last bench of her classroom,
Looking through the escape path to the woods,
With the clouds drizzling.
Oh, yes she did.
She owns the power now,
She owns her aspirations to succeed,
She has him,
She has her life,
Life, which had that mere dream.

Still the separation of his from hers,
Tickles a sensation,
She wonders,
Was that the pain?
She subdues it, by the supper,
The midnight supper,
The solitary supper,
The solitary midnight supper, in the rain.


The bird they slew


There lived a girl, who once claimed to attain the limitless wisdom one day,
Who, owned the wings to fly through the limitless bay,
To cross the limitless heights,
To possess a palace beyond the skies,
Whose wet palms, never caught the futile flow,
But they were firm to hold her dreams upright rendering a blissful glow.


The grip she made to the eternal longings,
To have her tyranny over her future belongings,
She then danced to the tunes,
Bringing along the mob, to live their moment under the moon,
She told them that the moon will reflect the expressions of their own,
On the days of their ecstasy, when they danced, he also shone.


The rhythm of melody as it flew with the winds,
The blind too imagined the tale with her taps, transfixed with everlasting grin.
On the top of the tower sits the blue bird, hungry and wry,
The girl gets her grief and drops the crumbles that went dry.
Vanilla and brownie once make her radiant the charm,
Now she can hardly pay heed to the savouries and the swarms.


As her father steps in the room, and let her his hours,
She wipes away her drops and the trembling showers,
And knowing that his girl’s tears will never dry,
Transforming his gestures, sequence of escape routes he tries,
To bring back the shine and the subdued glow,
But he knows he is not almighty to stop the unusual flow.


For the passage she now has in her journey,
Is, full of thorns, and the game plays of attorneys.
As the night was full of dark and terror,
The blood red faces and the cries of horror.
It was the day for which she had waited so long,
Her dreams and the skies, she owned the stage where she belonged.


The hours of toil, she devoted,
To move her waist round the curve as the mentor quoted.
She was a born prodigy, as her grandmother claimed,
Who herself owns the titles and the fame.
Five was her age when she grabbed the title of hall star,
From then her legs never shunned and crossed every emerging bar.


The Nineteenth annual international ball it is called,
For every nurturing bird it is a sky thereby stalled,
A plethora of human souls will be there to connect to her moves,
The nightmares of flaws and pitfalls is what that haunts her inner groves.
Her grandmother assured her the path will be enlightened,
When she will be inside the hall she won’t be frightened.


And then she knew that the moon reflects her powers,
She looked angelic when she appeared in blue frills with tucked Cronus flowers.
As her hands transformed into rhythmic mystical waves,
The crowd screamed in exuberance and captured the exultant soul, so brave.
With the melody, there come a surge of chaos,
The girl was thrown back with the emerging red too fierce.


She succumbed to the glow and warmth of the devastating fire,
There was a blast, and confronting her were the countless diers.
The ecstatic mob ceases to exist,
The moon too now refuses his brightness to persist .
She lay frigidly over the planks of the ruined form,
The cries and howls drained her ears inducing a deafening storm.


Her hazel eyes now drowned in the sleep that seemed eternal,
The fire and the eerie tones faded to numbness-nocturnal,
Lying like a lifeless mass in a chamber, she did opened up her eyes,
However, she noticed, the sounds missing were the deafening cries.
Missing were her limbs too,Bursting into a dead sea of non existence,
She screamed with the anguish that her shackled heart drew.


She is nothing, but a discarded thorn of the flower,
The one, that once bloomed, spreading its aura, symbolizing power,
Why she exists is the question that tolls?
The withered body is hollow with a drained soul.
The tears she shed won’t rotate the wheels of the cog.
The world that faces her is submerged in dense veil of fog.


She no longer trusts the moon, as he cheated,
The news lines running in background add to the fire brutally ignited.
The wrath towards the doers is the flame that has spread through the hays,
How can they remain souls stuck in bodies after the inhumane game they played?
The plays of attorney and the mocking words of wise punishment they blew,
Can never curb the grief of the bird they nearly slew.




A game of two

You mere words,
Intertwined thou,
Why you take away my sleep,
My free wandering soul,
My inner peace,
You stir me,
You like it,
Don’t you like to do it, so often,
Going in and out with rhythm,
Why you tease me, making the harsh, softened,
I know, you like to play with your versatility,
But do you know,
It shakes me up from within,
Rolling my nerves,
Arousing, making me swim.
Into a river, the river,
That you have made so deep,
The swirls and the rapids,
When I manage my head above,
You hit me hard with the fierce winds,
When the winds are not enough,
You gather your comrades,
And bring the clouds,
With all the heavenly fierceness,
You drench me always, breaking my vows,
Hey, you
Don’t you feel bad,
Troubling a weak soul,
Which already have succumbed,
To the valor of yours, your mighty robe.
I tried to fight you,
Now and then,
But have you ever given me a chance,
To stand upright and claim,
That what’s mine, will sing with me, and dance.
Oh, poor me,
I always end up,
Liking your charm,
Forgetting that you always hurt me,
Whenever I try to loose myself into your arms.
But now,
It has become a game,
A petty, a silly, game of two,
You firing me with your camaraderie,
While, I am allowing you to pierce within, sometimes turning me ecstatic, sometimes pushing me down in rue.
Oh, you mere words,
Intertwined thou.